


Chemotherapy

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Biblicial Allusions, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Naomi Being a Dick, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 09:45:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Naomi should have killed him.Years after her death, Castiel still struggles with overcoming with Naomi did to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paisley15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paisley15/gifts).



> For Paisley who wanted Castiel's torture under Naomi to be addressed. 
> 
> Takes place after 12.10, but before 12.12

                The human body is a machine. It runs on precision and accuracy and the dependency that all of the parts will do their singular job to come together and form life.

                But the problem with machines is that they are not flawless. They stop working eventually. And sometimes single parts perform their job incorrectly. The human body turns over millions of cells every minute. Yet it takes only one—just one single, lone cell—to wrongly split for cancer to be born. That cancer cell infects the others, and splits into new cancer cells that eat the healthy ones, infecting the host until it withers away and dies.

                Heaven is like a human body. The angels are the cells, their ranks their assigned duty to keep the body healthy. And sometimes, even Heaven gets sick.

                Castiel is a cancer. Naomi wonders sometimes if he came off the line with a crack in his chassis. He won’t _obey_ and it is such a shame because he is so intelligent and such a fierce soldier; but so long as he never obeys, he can never be an angel. He questions—it is not his place to question—but worse, like a cancer, he infects the others. He makes the others question.

                She remembers the first time Castiel disobeyed, the morning when Abraham was to prove his fidelity to God, by sacrificing his only son.

                “I don’t understand,” Castiel said. “The boy was God’s gift to Abraham; a reward for his patience and trust. He already proved his loyalty. Why must he prove it again?”

                “Hush, Castiel,” she had told him. “It is not for us to question the orders from above. So God has commanded it, so shall it be done.”

                And the Host of Heaven watched as Abraham led Isaac up the hill and tied him to the altar; watched as the child pleaded with his father, demanded to be let down and Abraham listening to none of it, even with tears in his eyes, as he took his blade from his belt and held it poised above Isaac’s heart, prepared to sink it down into the flesh of his flesh.

                She hadn’t realized Castiel was gone until she heard his voice and it rocked Heaven and the Earth like rolling thunder; as he created a scene that the humans would tell to their children for millennia to come.

                “ _Stop!”_ Castiel has yelled.  

But the angel of the Lord called out to him from heaven, “Abraham! Abraham! Do not lay a hand on the boy,” he said.

                Abraham’s hand stopped and Castiel knocked the blade away from his hand. He lied to Abraham as he freed Isaac from his bindings. He told Abraham that this had merely been a test of Abraham’s love to God, that he had passed by being so willing to give up the thing he loved most in this world to God.

                Naomi was livid. The colors of her office shook and mutated, reds and oranges cascading around her and the order tumbled from her lips before even she was aware of what she had said.

 It wasn’t the first time she had used it; but it was the first time she had used it on Castiel. It would hardly be her last.

                Castiel screamed, but he never repented.

                “He was only a boy,” Castiel said in between his pained sobs, screaming to be heard over her tools, with blood flowing down his face. “His father loved  him so much. God gave the boy to him, why should he give him back?”

                She couldn’t have this nonsense floating around, infecting Castiel, infecting the others. The whole Host had seen what Castiel had done and now she was going to have to fix them too. Disobedience was not to be tolerated. Rebels would not be martyred.

                She stripped Castiel of the memories and as she wiped away the blood for the corners of his eye, whispered lowly into his ear, “Your name is Castiel. You are an angel of the Lord. Your duty is to obey.”

.

.

Years later,  Moses would walk with his brother and sister—his real brother and sister, Aaron and Miriam, coating the doors of the Hebrew people with lamb’s blood. Later that night, they would cower in the corners of their homes as the Host stalked the deserted desert streets, slaughtering the first born sons of those who had not forsaken the Pagan deities of the land.

Naomi walked into Pharaoh’s palace and found his eldest son, curled in his bed sleeping. She leaned over and pressed her lips to his and sucked, pulling the soul out of the body. It was warm on her lips, and scorched her tongue as her grace attacked it until it withered away into nothing and when she ceased the kiss and stepped back, her vessel’s mouth tasted like ash.

She was aware of a presence behind her. She turned around, unafraid, because she was an Angel of the Lord, and even Pharaoh was no match for her, for he was the child of Pagan gods and she was a child for the Lord, her god, the true God.

It was not the Pharaoh, or one of his wives. It was Castiel.

He stood, horror struck, and fell to his knees. Naomi became aware that he was not covered in blood, and that his mouth did not taste like ash.

“Castiel,” she said sternly, walking forward. Her feet were bare, but that did nothing to quiet her footsteps. She knelt down and held his head in her hands. “Why have you disobeyed?”

“It’s _wrong_ , sister,” he said. His eyes were locked onto her lips. “These children…they are innocent. We’re supposed to be their shepherds, not their murderers.” Slowly, his eyes moved from her to the empty corpse behind her.

“It is not our place to question, Castiel. Our orders come from Father himself. We are angels, our duty is to obey. Now, come; there is still work to be done.” She rose to her feet and outstretched a hand, but Castiel continued to stare at her in a way that made something dark coil insider her. It was a mixture of horror and pity and confusion. Naomi bit at her lip, because it was she who should pity him. He was a child too, she reminded herself.

“No,” he said. “You can’t make me.”

And children needed to be disciplined.

“Don’t make me do something I’ll regret, brother.”

“I don’t care. I won’t murder innocent children. You can’t make me. _You can’t make me!_ ”

She snatched at his hand and dragged him up to Heaven before he could protest, and soon the drill was swirling and Castiel was beyond the point of screaming, just crying quietly, occasionally murmuring his useless mantra of _you can’t make mes_ , but Naomi would shush him, carding her long fingers through his hair with one hand, pushing the drill deeper with the other.

She knew she was finished when Castiel ceased his useless talking. She took the drill out and placed it on the tray beside her. She gently wiped away the blood on his face with her thumb. He watched her every move out of the corner of his eyes, irises trembling in horror.

“Your name is Castiel. You are an angel of the Lord. Your duty is to obey.”

.

.

 

In between these episodes, Castiel was a good soldier.

But the older he grew, the more turbulent these idle incidents of disobedience became. Naomi reminded him each time, of his name and duty, doing her best to erase the time of his disobedience from his memory. It was better he didn’t remember. It was better that he always thought he’d been a good solider, an obedient solider. The longer he thought this of himself, the longer were the tides in between his slip ups.

                Castiel was a magnificent solider, one they couldn’t bear to lose. He fought like it was the only thing he knew how to do. He was crafted by God’s own hand a leader. If having him on Heaven’s side meant putting up with one of his ruckuses every few millennia, well. It wasn’t anything Naomi couldn’t handle. She dealt with wayward angels all the time—some she managed to re-educated, remedy, and others were past the point that even she could not retrieve them from, and so she had to call a Rit Zien.

                Sometimes, during one of Castiel’s sessions, she thought perhaps it would be better for everyone—Castiel, Heaven—if she just gave up and called the Rit Zien for him.

                But Castiel was admired for his strength and strategy and intellect and faith: were he to die, Naomi was sure that Heaven would be mournful, and that wasn’t anything she wished to deal with.

                Besides, the Apocalypse was upon them. Dean Winchester’s soul had been maimed by Lucifer’s hounds, and was drug managled and shredded to the Pit. His brother was burying the body, barely even recognizable; time was of the essence. They needed Castiel.

.

.

 

 

                If Naomi regretted anything in her entire existence, it was that she did not stop Castiel from joining the siege on Hell. Castiel had disobeyed many times, shook the foundation of Heaven to its core his entire life; but it had always been something that Naomi could fix.

                She couldn’t fix this. Dean Winchester had taken him, an angel, a child of the Lord, and ruined him.

                Castiel had one job.

                _One job._

                To watch the Righteous man, keep him contained in his Heaven.

                And Castiel let him out.

                And so the cell was wrongly spilt.

                When Raphael came to the Prophet’s house, and burned Castiel away so that nothing was left, she felt, for the first time, the slightest degree of pity. If Castiel had only _listened_ …

                But then God, who had been absent for so long, silent for even longer, brought him back. Castiel was alive again.

                And Naomi wondered.

.

.

 

                Being an overall nuisance, Naomi could overlook. She could handle.

                But Castiel had uprooted everything. He had destroyed everything. Her home….everything she had known…

                She just wanted to have order again. Angels were spilt into two factions: those who lead and those who followed. She was a leader—why couldn’t Castiel follow?

                Dean Winchester had stirred the worst things inside Castiel. She thought if she could make Castiel kill him, make Castiel destroy what had destroyed him, Castiel could recover. Heaven could be Heaven again. Naomi had long given up the hope that God would ever return, but they had managed without Him before. They could do it again.

                But Castiel would not obey. Nothing she did, no amount of strapping him down to her chair, no matter how deep she dug her drill, how much blood and grace poured out of his eyes and onto her hands, would turn Castiel back into an angel again.

                One particularly bad case, when Castiel had once again refused to kill her replica of Dean, she lost her temper.

                Her drill buzzed loudly, and Castiel was trying very hard not the scream, and she yelled over all of it, “You’ve ruined everything! Everything! You’re _broken_ , Castiel, _broken_! You’re cancer. Even I can’t fix you!” and in that moment, she wanted to kill him. With her own hand. Not leave it to a Rit Zien, but take on matters herself. It wouldn’t be hard: re-educating was so precise. If she were to move her hand, her drill, even the tiniest fraction of an inch, she could kill him, severe the nerve fibers of his vessel and crush his grace.

                She didn’t though. It was her last grain of moral fiber—it wasn’t right for angels to kill angels. She wasn’t like Castiel.

But later, when Castiel was on the run, the angel tablet hidden somewhere on him, Metatron on the loose somewhere, she wished she had.

                And when she had unveiled Metatron’s plan, realized that to him, Castiel was only a pawn—it would have been more merciful just to kill him. He wouldn’t listen to her; wouldn’t listen to reason.

                When Metatron came at her with her own drill, she was grateful. Her hopes of restoring Heaven were in vain; and she rather be dead than continue to live in the shattered grave of her home that Castiel had decimated.

                                                                                --0—0—0—

                Castiel swallowed, shudders trembling down his wings and spine. His temples throbbed. He was aware of the expansion of lungs, erratic and unstable and he struggled to focus all his mental energy on relaxing.

                Sam once gave him an exercise. Sam advised to close his eyes and take and count deep, slow breaths, and to focus on nothing but breathing and counting.

                Castiel’s grace and body took care of all those autonomous actions. He was almost never really aware of the vessel’s functions: breathing, heartbeat, homeostasis. It just happened.

                But now, with his back pressed against the door, Castiel was hyperaware of everything. The chilly air against the nape of his neck, the feeling of his clothes against his skin, the hard concrete underneath him, the sound of his soles slipping against the floor, the steel door pressed against his back, every beat of his heart against his ribcage, and the expansion and deflation of his lungs with every breath.

                He inhaled, slowly, and held it. His lungs trembled and felt like they might burst—but he held it, and then slowly released it, drawing out the process.

                He repeated, counting.

                One. . . Two. . . Three. . . Four . . . Five . . .

                All that existed were his breaths and the numbers.

                Thirty. . . Thirty one. . .

                Sweat was accumulating on his brow. His throat was tight.

                Forty-nine. . . Fifty. . .

                There was a knock on the door. Castiel jolted.

                “Cas?” It was Dean. “Cas, you okay? C’mon, open the door.”

                Despite Dean not being able to see, Castiel shook his head. He didn’t want Dean to see him like this. It was bad enough Dean had seen him panic and run away, bad enough he was already hiding like a coward. Castiel already knew he was a poor excuse of an angel, but he didn’t want Dean to see him. Dean had already lost so much respect and admiration for him over the years, and maybe it was selfish; maybe it was vain; but Castiel didn’t want to fall lower in Dean’s opinion than he already was.

                Sixty-eight. . . Sixty-nine. . . Seventy.

                Naomi was dead. Naomi was dead. He muttered it to himself, hoping maybe hearing it would help solidify the fact in his mind. She was dead. She couldn’t hurt him, not anymore.

                In recent years, memories had begun to seep through the mortar Naomi had carelessly spackled in his mind. Sometimes, they would spill through unprompted, without a trigger. It was jarring when one fell through. He had gone through millennia believing one thing, recalling an event to have happened one way, and then one of the injured memories would come through and it was like Castiel was a stranger to himself.

                _You came off the line with a crack in your chassis,_ Naomi said. _You can’t even **die** right. _

_You are broken_ , Metatron said.

                Other people knew more of his life, his actions, than he did.

                Dean knocked again. “Cas. Cas, open the door, or I’m breaking it down.”

                “Go away,” Castiel snapped bitterly. _Leave me alone_.

                He had just been in the library, researching with the brothers, trying to track down Kelly Kline, when one of the memories came forth.

                He remembered Isaac. He remembered Abraham. One of the greatest moments recorded in the Holy Bible, and he was the catalyst—and it wasn’t even supposed to have happened. His disobedience was recorded and consumed by billions of people over the course of thousands of years.

                Ninety-eight. . . Ninety-nine. . .

                “Cas,” Dean implored. Dean began fiddling with the lock. “I’m coming in.”

                One-hundred.

                Naomi was right. He’d always been a terrible angel.

                The door opened. Castiel felt the warm air of the hallway strike the back of his neck. He felt Dean’s presence behind him. Dean was standing.

                “Hey,” Dean said, awkwardly. “Hey, what happened back there?”

                Castiel reached up slowly and touched the corner of his eye. There wasn’t any blood, but Castiel wasn’t comforted.

                Dean scooted past Castiel and kneeled in front of him. “You okay?”

                One hundred-eight. . . One hundred-nine. . .

                “I’m fine,” Castiel said thickly.  He was. His breathing was starting to relax. His muscles weren’t as tense. His temples weren’t throbbing. His heartbeat wasn’t so erratic.

                Dean raised an eyebrow. “No you’re not.”

                “I will be,” Castiel said, meeting Dean’s eye. “I will. I had. . . a memory came back to me. Just now. But it’s okay now, Dean. I promise.”

                Dean frowned. “What was the memory?”

                Castiel chewed on his lip. He moved closer to Dean. He spoke quietly, unable to look Dean in the eyes. As he told the story, more aspects of the memory became clearer to him. He remembered holding Isaac’s hand. He lead Isaac down the mountain. Abraham knelt in front of him and wept for joy.

                When Castiel finished, he stared at his feet.

                “You saved a kid,” Dean said, confusion layered in his voice. “That’s something to be proud of.”  

                “I disobeyed,” Castiel said, barely able to get the word out. “I’ve always been a bad angel.”

                “Hey,” Dean said, his tone snappish. “No, no, you’re wrong Cas. You—shit, the other angels were okay with a kid being killed, and you weren’t. You saved a kid—that sounds like a real angel to me.”

                Castiel swallowed. Dean reached out and patted Castiel’s shoulder. Dean didn’t understand—he would never understand. Angels were supposed to obey. They were not supposed to question their superiors.

                “Where’s Sam?” Castiel asked. Anything to change the subject.

                “In the library,” Dean said. “He wanted to give you privacy. Want me to get him?”

                Castiel shook his head. It was bad enough Dean was seeing him like this; Castiel couldn’t stand if Sam saw him too.

                “Cas,” Dean said seriously. “Look at me.”

                Castiel did.

                Dean’s eyes were bright, sparkling. Several different emotions swam in them, worry and pain and fondness and kindness. It was almost overwhelming for Castiel to bear witness to. All his life, he thought he knew what love, family, and friendship were, but it wasn’t until he met Dean that he really learned.

                “You’re an angel,” Dean said. “Probably the only real angel out there. Okay, so you disobeyed. You know what? Because of you, a little boy didn’t die. Wouldn’t it have been more evil to stand back and let shit go down?”

                Dean scooted closer.

                Castiel couldn’t answer Dean. “Naomi said—“

                “Forget anything Naomi ever told you,” Dean spat. “What the hell did she know about being a good angel, huh? She tortured you, and who knows how many others, for who knows how long.”

                Castiel shuddered and touched the corner of his eye again. He kept expecting warm, tacky blood to coat his fingertips, but there was nothing.

                “I still think about her,” Castiel admitted shamefully, mouth dry. “What she did. What she made me do.”

                He looked at his knuckles. He heard Dean pleading at him, heard Dean’s bones crunch under his fists, it was Dean’s blood on his fingers, not his own—it would always been Dean’s blood.

                “Cas. Cas!” Dean shook him. “Breathe, man. Just breathe.”

                Castiel inhaled shakily, nails biting into the meat of his palms. He lost count. Where had he been?

                One. . . Two. . . Three. . .

                “You know I don’t blame you, right? That wasn’t you. I knew that back then, I know that now.”

                “I could have killed you,” Castiel whispered.

                “But you didn’t. Hell, Cas. How many times have I almost killed you just these past two years?”

                “That’s different.”

                “How?”

                “Because,” Castiel hissed, “I’m an _angel_. It’s not your job to look after me, I’m supposed to look after you.”

                Dean chuckled humorlessly. “Cas, no offense, but Sam and me? We can take care of ourselves. Now, hold on a second, wipe that look of your face. I appreciate you looking after us. I’m damn grateful, really. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. You’ve saved our asses more times than I can count: but I don’t need you to look after me. I’m a big boy. I was looking after myself my entire life before I met you.

                “And it’s okay to still think about her. What she did. I. . .” Dean leaned in close to Castiel’s. “Hell, I still think about Hell. I don’t think you ever get over that sort of stuff. It’s okay to still be scared—but you can’t let the fear hold you back. And you never do, Cas. You don’t let anything hold you back. I’m proud of you for that.”

                Castiel had been alive since before the dawn of man; not even he was sure of his numerical age. Angels didn’t bother themselves with such trivialities. But he was very old.

                And in all his time as a warrior, a solider, a leader, Dean was the only person---the only one—to tell Castiel he was proud of him.

                Sometimes, it was almost too much.

                “Naomi’s dead,” Dean continued. “She can’t hurt you anymore.”

                “Sometimes I don’t know what’s real and what’s not,” Castiel whispered. “She took so many of my memories, Dean. . . Sometimes I don’t even know who I am.”

                “You’re Castiel,” Dean said. “You’re a stubborn, reckless son of a bitch. You have no tact with witnesses, even though they all like you better for some reason. You’re a wicked badass, definitely not someone I want to get caught in a fight with, and honestly, you scare me sometimes with how good of a fighter you are. You’re my best friend.”

                “ _I’m_ your best friend?”

                “Why’re you so shocked?”

                “Dean. I’m. I’m no good.”

                “Shut up,” Dean interrupted.

                “It’s true. The more memories that. . . come back to me, the more I realize, I’ve never been a good angel—“

                “Cas, seriously, shut up.”

                “If I was, Naomi never would have needed to re-educate me in the first place—“  
                “Shut up!”

                Castiel’s mouth closed audibly.

                Dean sighed. “Call it what it is, Cas. Say it. Say what she did to you.”

                “She re-educ—“  
                “Nope.”

                “Dean, that’s what it is—“

                “You know what it is, say it.”

                “Naomi re-educated—“

                “We’ll do this all night if we have to, but we’re not leaving until you say it—“

                “Torture,” Castiel spat the word out like poison. “Naomi tortured me.”

                The word had weight, and when Castiel said it, his shoulders somehow felt just a little bit lighter. He swallowed.

                Naomi tortured him.

                “Say it again,” Dean said.

                “Naomi,” Castiel said slowly, “tortured me.” He touched the corner of his eye with one hand.

                Dean gently grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “This is real. I promise. Do you trust me?”

                “Of course,” Castiel whispered.

                “Then trust this. This is real, and you didn’t deserve what happened to you. No one deserves that. You’re a good angel. Probably the only real angel out there in the world.”

                “Then why does God ignore me?” Castiel asked—he didn’t know why. It just came out, unwarranted.

                Dean sighed. “Your dad’s a dick,” he said. “I’m sorry, Cas. I know a thing or two about deadbeat dads.” Dean smiled mirthlessly.  “But, uh, one thing I’ve learned over the years is that. . . it doesn’t mean anything about you. What Heaven did to you, Cas. . . That’s on them. Not you.”

                Castiel scoffed. Why did he bother? He knew Dean meant well; truly, Dean was a wonderful friend. A pure soul. But Dean didn’t understand. He wouldn’t ever understand.

                “I’ll spend the rest of life trying to convince you, if that’s what takes.”

                To Castiel, Dean’s lifespan was closer to that of a housefly than an angel.

                Dean put his hand on Castiel’s back. He patted Castiel comfortingly.

                “I’m sorry,” Castiel said.

                “For what?”

                “For. . . worrying you,” Castiel said. Shame curdled in his stomach. If the angels had seen him just moments ago, he’d be a bigger joke in Heaven than he already was.

                “It’s okay,” Dean said. “I’ve been there, man. But, you don’t have to lock yourself away. Sam and me, we’re here for you. Whenever and however you need.”

                “I should be stronger,” Castiel said. Naomi was _dead_. Had been for years. He should be over it by now.

                “You’re the strongest guy I know,” Dean said.

                Castiel stared at him. He couldn’t tell if Dean was lying or not.

                “Just,” Dean swallowed, “don’t shut me out. Or Sam. You can talk to us.”

                Castiel sighed and leaned into Dean—the feeling of Dean’s shoulder pressed against his was comforting. The heat of Dean’s body against his own a reminder that _this_ was real. Dean was solid, here, alive; Castiel was in the bunker, the safest place in North America. He wanted to believe Dean. It would be so much easier if he could believe Dean.

                Naomi was dead.

                There still wasn’t blood leaking from his eyes.

                Castiel sighed.

                Naomi’s words still echoed in his mind. _You’re cancer_.

                He still mourned his wings, and Heaven, and the friendship of his siblings. But he didn’t regret what he did. He made the right choice, siding with the Winchesters against the Apocalypse.

                And. . .

                And he made the right choice, back on top of that infamous hill.

                Castiel swallowed.

                Naomi was wrong. Dean didn’t make Castiel sick. Castiel had already been sick. Years of abuse from Heaven, made him sick.

                Heaven was the cancer.

                Earth, humanity. . . they cured Castiel.

                Maybe he could learn to believe Dean, eventually.

                Castiel closed his eyes, and remembered holding a little, terrified boy against his chest, shielding him with his wings against the wrath of the Host storming above him.

                Isaac looked up at him with wide, enamored eyes. “Are you really an angel?” he whispered.

                “I am,” Castiel said. “Run.” Isaac and Abraham raced down the hill as dark storm clouds covered the sky, and Castiel was yanked back up to Heaven by his wings, and for the first time, he was strapped to Naomi’s chair. For the first time, he saw the glint of her drill paired with her angry scowl.

                He never repented.


End file.
